


We'll Bring A Cup Of Kindness

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes on a last-minute shopping trip to the local mall on Christmas Eve. There, he meets someone special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Bring A Cup Of Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas holiday exchange over on tumblr, for team-free-willies.  
> Happy holidays! <3

  
Dean Winchester was no boaster, but no one would refute the fact that Dean Winchester was a great brother. He loved his little brother Sammy to death, and not just out of some familial sense of obligation to do so. He _loved_ his brother, and hell, he practically _raised_ him for all that their father's neglect was any kind of help. Even when they had no money growing up, Dean found some way to make Sam's birthdays special, to make holidays special, and even when they grew up and got jobs and Sam became a hotshot lawyer, Dean still tried his very best to be the very best of himself for Sam.

The only problem is, is that sometimes Dean is doubtful of his success, like now, standing in the middle of a mall on Christmas Eve, without any idea of what to get his brother, 'cause he somehow _completely forgot_ that Christmas is tomorrow.

"Jesus fucking _Christ_ ," Dean hisses at himself under his breath, but then chuckles. _Yeah,_ he thinks wryly, _I guess that's the whole idea._

 

  
***

  
The first thing Dean notices about the man are his hands.

They're clearly rough hands, working hands by the way they're built and calloused, but there's a delicateness about them, too, a strange, soft elegance. His fingers somehow look both sharp and smooth all at once, as they fold and cut the seasonal wrapping paper in front of him at his station.

Dean _never_ does this, uses the mall wrapping stations that is. He’s always been very much of a do-it-yourself kind of guy, even though he does know the wrapping services are usually donating towards a good cause. Dean would rather just donate money and do his own wrapping at home, though, if given the choice. But, well, when you buy your brother a present last minute without any time to wrap it yourself, that’s what you kind of have to settle for.

Luckily, the ordeal is rendered slightly less arduous by the fact that the guy running the wrapping station at two hours to close on Christmas Eve is extremely, distractingly, _ethereally_ hot. Dean thought his _hands alone_ were something to marvel at, as he first spied the man’s movements out of the corner of his eye as he approached the wrapping station from around the corner, but when the guy finally looks up to serve Dean, his mouth almost instantly goes dry. His hands are something, but his eyes--his eyes are something _else_.

“Can I help you?” the man asks, staring straight at Dean with an unsettling earnestness. Dean notes that the man’s voice is deeper than he would have expected, but he’s certainly not disappointed by his misconception being overturned. Dean prides himself on a very good imagination, but it doesn’t take much at _all,_ really, to imagine the words voice could make quake and curl around that tongue.

“Yeah, um, I have this book set to wrap?” Dean finally manages to find his voice, tearing his gaze away from Handsome Man’s face to look down at the pristine, hardcover tome collection in his hands, as he sets it down on the wrapping table between them. It’s a stupidly nice set, a collection of fairytales Dean knows Sam loved when he was younger, from tales of King Arthur’s knights to Rumpelstiltskin, and everything in between. Dean’s known for some months now that Sam has a baby on the way with his fiancée, and he thinks Sam will be touched by the thought of passing down his favourite stories of his own childhood to his son.

"It's for, uh-- it's for my brother,” Dean adds at Handsome Man’s blank look. “Normally I go for the whole classic sly sibling thing of wrapping it in three rolls of duct tape, you know,” Dean laughs self-consciously, “but didn't have time this year... ‘cause obviously I'm a terrible person who just bought their brother’s gift _literally_ at the last minute," he chuckles again, and rubs the back of his neck to avoid the self-directed grimace that threatens to overtake his face.

"I wouldn't say that makes you a terrible person,” the man finally says, as he takes the book set into his beautiful hands. He looks at Dean, eyes serious but open--honest. “Merely a busy one."

"Haha, yeah, well, I wish. I'm only as busy as the next poor sap,” Dean shrugs, and then stuffs his hands in his pockets as he watches the wrapper get to work. “Truth is I just forgot,” he adds, when, though the man is no longer looking at him, Dean can tell he still has the man’s rapt attention, by the way he keeps glancing up, and angling his ears. The set of Dean’s shoulders loosen up.

“Who forgets about _Christmas?_ I spent something like 10 hours last week making snowflakes with 8 year olds and I forgot it's _Christmas_. I even got _Christmas cards_ from those kids and I _still_ forgot. Maybe I'm just busy and terrible," Dean huffs, shaking his head in admonishment at himself. When he sees the man has paused in his work, Dean waves his hands in a motion as if physically attempting to erase what he just said. "Shit, and rambling, sorry. I'm, uh, Dean by the way."

The man points at his name tag, which Dean had entirely failed to notice until now, and recites what’s written on the label. “Hello, my name is Castiel," he offers dryly, but punctuates the statement by a small smile, so small, indeed, that Dean might have missed it, peeking in at the corner of his mouth, if his eyes hadn’t been straying to the shape of that mouth for the last five minutes.

Dean coughs. “Nice gig, you have going here,” he offers back by way of small talk as Cas finishes up the cutting and folding and gets out some nice, shiny ribbon.

“It is,” Castiel agrees. _Wow_ , Dean thinks, _certainly a guy of few words_.

“This a volunteer thing for you, or…?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, though upon seeing Dean’s expression of disappointment at his failure to elaborate, is quick to continue, “It’s for the local shelter, as you might have seen on our banner. I’m an administrator there, but I like to volunteer my time here during our fundraisers, especially on the nights I know some of our other volunteers would like the night off.”

Dean smiles, genuinely impressed. “Wow, volunteering your time on Christmas Eve? You must be a saint.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Far from it,” he says, short and firm. He clips the ends of his ribbon, tied in a pretty little bow. He smirks ironically. “I’m just… a less busy sinner.”

Dean laughs. There’s something… _refreshing_ about this guys, Castiel, that he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe the phenomenon is unnameable to Dean because it doesn’t have a name, never having been before encountered. Castiel--Cas--is more captivating to Dean than anything or anyone has been in months, caught in the weird funk that he has been, and that is worth nothing. Castiel is _something_.

“How much?” he asks as Cas finishes up.

“It’s a five dollar donation fee,” Castiel says. “But if you would like to contribute a bit more, we’d be very grateful--”

“Here’s ten,” Dean cuts him off, brandishing his most charming smile. He was always going donate more anyway, but putting that surprised smile on Cas’ face in return certainly is a great bonus.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says as he takes the proffered bill, and Dean feels lit with a giddy feeling that immediately takes him back to high school.

The guy _remembered his name_.

 

  
***

  
  
Because Dean is hopeless, and already without plans on Christmas Eve, he buys something else before he leaves the mall, and then immediately goes back to Castiel’s station.

“I figured, I’m going over to my brother’s tomorrow, right? You never go to dinner without wine,” he says by way of greeting holding up the bottle he’d just bought, grinning as Cas glances up at him in surprise to see his return. By the look on his face, Dean would bet, he never thought he would see Dean again, but Dean would also guess Cas is very happy to be proven wrong.

“You don’t strike me as the person who often drinks wine at dinner,” Castiel says instead of the generic ‘hello’ that had been waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“You caught me,” Dean concedes, as he sets the bottle down on the table between them. “No, I’m not. But my brother is, and I don’t hate it,” he shrugs.

“You also don’t often _wrap_ wine, as a general rule,” Cas points out.

“Well,” Dean grins again, feeling especially, _absurdly_ flirty. He blames it on the eyes. And the hands. And the whole general… _everything_ of Cas. “I’m _all_ about breaking the rules, Cas. Wanna break a little one with me?”

“Only if you buy me coffee first,” Cas deadpans, and as Dean barks a genuine laughs, he gets to work.

 

  
***

  
  
Dean, because he’s both a fool and a sap, does come back with coffee later as the stores in the mall start closing, and Cas starts packing up his wrapping booth. He holds the paper cup up to Cas as he approaches, and sees Cas’ face crumple in gratefulness. Cas takes a huge swig of the steaming cup as if the biting heat of the beverage is no barrier between him and his caffeine. Dean admires him a little more.

After he’s helped Cas clean up for the day, Dean offers to walk out with him. It’s a nice night out, Dean knows, and if he’s lucky he maybe can get Cas to share a coffee with him out on the curb of the parking lot as if they really _are_ teenagers.

“I suppose this counts as something like a first date, then?” Cas asks, a few hours later, when their coffees are long finished and left forgotten in trash bins by the now locked mall doors. It’s been hours but it almost feels like mere minutes, for all Dean has happily lost track of time. Dean thinks he could stare at Cas for days and not feel a second pass, there is never enough time for it. By the way Cas stares back at Dean, he would almost guess it’s the same for him.

“Um, well, ” Dean coughs, trying to hide his blush. He’s lucky it’s closing in on midnight, for the dark of the sky helps cloak some of his embarrassment. “Yeah, if you--if you want it to be.”

Cas shifts, and his shoulder grazes Dean’s. Dean holds his breath. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says quietly, after a beat, and Dean lets a shuddering breath out.

“Good,” Dean says, looking down at the pavement between his legs, as he tries to get a handle on the curious, delighted feeling swirling up within him, feelings he hasn’t felt in _so long_. “That’s… good.”

Cas smiles, warm, inviting. “I’m inclined to agree.”

_God, it’s  fucking luminous,_ Dean thinks, unapologetically romantic. “Fuck it,” he sighs. “Can I kiss you?” He asks it in a determined rush, but his heart beats hesitatingly, steeling itself for heartbreak.

Gloriously, Cas lets him live on relieved. “Please do,” he says, and Dean needs no further invitation.

He kisses Cas like it’s a first kiss--because it is--but also like it’s a last, nervous already that it might very well be so. He's been burned far too many times in the past, so  he milks it for all he can. He presses his mouth into Cas’ mouth in this dirty parking lot in the middle of the night, and thinks recklessly that this softness, this plush, pink warmth and give is the only place he ever wants to be.

He kisses Cas and it’s wonderful and tantalising, and too, too short.

The break away for breath, but do not pull apart far. Dean can see Cas’ pupils are blown wide in this dim light. If he’s honest, though, he likes to think that _he_ had a little to do with that, too.

“It’s midnight,” Cas finally says after a moment, when he breaks Dean’s gaze to check his watch.

“Jesus, that late huh?”

“Not that late for me, really,” Cas explains, as if trying to reassure Dean that he hasn’t kept him from anywhere he might otherwise needs to be. “I only meant to say it’s midnight, so that means it’s officially Christmas.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can find in him to say to that.

Cas put a warm hand on his knee, and those deft, delightful fingers curl around Dean’s kneecap in an overly familiar way that only makes Dean yearn _more_ for more breaking of boundaries. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” Cas says, and it feels like the palm of his hand grows suddenly warmer.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” he says softly, leaning his thigh into Cas’ leg.

Cas takes a moment to pull his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and then frowns down at it solemnly, trying to come to a decisions. Finally, after a terrifying beat, he asks, “If I--if I gave you my number, would you consider that too forward?”

Dean laughs, delighted. “I’d consider it my best Christmas gift yet,” he admits.

Cas frowns, not quite receiving that for the compliment Dean meant it to be. “It’s you _r only_ Christmas gift yet.”

“Mark my words, it’ll still be true tomorrow when I call you,” he says, as he grabs Cas’ phone from his hands and begins in putting his info.

“So soon?” Cas raises an eyebrow, playing along. He’s really not so bad at this flirting gig, after all. “You must really like me.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, throwing Cas’ phone back to him, to land in his lap. Cas instead catches it expertly out of midair. “I might text you even earlier while I’m drunk with my brother after Christmas dinner.”

“What a day I have to look forward too, then,” Cas chuckles, standing up. Dean supposes he must have a car or something parked somewhere around this desolate parking lot, even if the only vehicle he himself has eyes for is his 1967 impala parked a few yards away/

“All part of the Winchester package,” Dean jokingly boasts as he stands up with him, stretching his legs and his shoulders with a grateful _pop_. “Drunk texts and midnight kisses.”

“Kisses plural? I’ve been short-changed, then,” Cas says, his face schooled innocent, impassive. “I only got one.”

Two can play at that game. “Maybe I was waiting for you to take the next for yourself.”

Dean spots a satisfied glint sparkle in Cas’ eye, and is absurdly glad for putting it there. “Well,” Cas says, moving back in closer, and putting a hand on Dean’s cheek. “That I can do.”

This kiss is softer this time, gentler, but no less determined. Dean positively vibrates with the knowledge, too, that Cas has taken his number: he might very well get to do all this and _more_   again very, very soon.

“Good night, Dean,” Castiel says when they part, and Dean is really starting to love the way Cas says his name. Jesus, he’s only known the guy for a few hours.

“Good night, Cas,” he breathes out, emphasising clearly every word. It’s the first time, in a long time, that Dean truly means it. It had been a damn good night, indeed.


End file.
